


Maximum Potential Intensity II: Failure Mode

by StHoltzmann



Series: New Toys [6]
Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Cliffhangers, Danger, Dominance, Emotional Hurt, F/F, Feels, POV Second Person, Please Don't Kill Me, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Weird smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 19:09:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7982935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StHoltzmann/pseuds/StHoltzmann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're alone in a hurricane with your guilt. Holtzmann's gone out in the storm to a critical bust.<br/>You want her to come back.<br/>You don't want to face her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maximum Potential Intensity II: Failure Mode

**Author's Note:**

> Turns out it's a 3-part finale.
> 
> Nothing graphic, but warning for blade and blood imagery.

Holtzmann is gone, out into the storm. You’re alone, with the last few minutes playing on a painful loop in your head. Holtzmann really didn’t _say_ anything to you, just instructions andher last words as she left. You bury your head in your arms and just lean against the table. Your back shakes as the sobs wrack your whole body.

All you can think is _I ruined everything_ and _After tonight I’m never going to be able to see Holtzmann ever again._

Finally, you manage to stop the crying. You wash your face to get the miserable feeling of tears off of your face, and blow your nose on a paper towel. You know your face is blotchy and your eyes are red-rimmed, but it doesn’t matter. No one is here to see you.

Listlessly, you drink some water. You can feel an impending headache, and although it’s not like you don’t deserve it, you’d rather try to stop it. You press your fingers against your eyes. You knew this was going to end badly, but you hadn’t expected for it to be drawn out like this. Maybe…maybe it would be better if you just left? You already feel like your heart’s been cut out of your chest, and you’re not sure you can deal with also having it ripped apart—which is sure to happen when Holtzmann returns in a couple of hours and you finish your “conversation.”

She said to stay, but you can finish your end of the conversation now. And you’re sure you can already imagine what Holtzmann is going to say.

You turn over the paper Holtzmann wrote on before she left, and try to think of what to write: _I checked “emotionally impartial” on the paperwork every time but it was never 100% true. I was too selfish to tell you…_ but your hands are shaking too hard to get the words down. You throw the pencil and paper back on the table, pull on your coat and shoes, pick up your bag, and head to the door. You shove it open and step blindly out.

Immediately, you’re thrown against the building. “Fuck! What—“ you start to yell, but the words are ripped from your mouth by the wind and the rain. The wind feels like it’s physically assaulting you—you might not have a problem standing if you felt fine, but you’re not really at your best right now. And the rain is so fast and heavy that it almost hurts. You’re soaked from head to toe, and you can barely open your eyes. It’s even hard to hear. Stubbornly, you put your head down and try to take a few steps away from the warehouse, but it’s just impossible. You turn back toward the warehouse door.

It’s closed.

While you were fighting the storm, the door must have slammed shut. You stagger over to the keypad and hold one arm over it in a futile attempt to keep the rain off it so that you can see. What the hell is the code? You punch in 1989, but it just flashes an angry red. Was it 1986? No, wrong. Your fingers are wet and freezing. Maybe 1984? There’s a click, and you can just make out that the scrolling green message on the display says YOU BETTER BE SOMEBODY I KNOW.

You get inside and haul the door shut. Now you’re making a puddle on Holtzmann’s floor. Ugh…You slide down the door and just sit there, wet and cold. How is Holtzmann going to get wherever she’s going on a motorcycle in this weather? Hopefully she’s heading in a direction that’s less, not more, affected by the storm. And you hope the Class VI whatevers are easy to take care of.

If there’s anyone who can handle both natural and supernatural disasters at the same time, it’s Holtzmann, surely.

After a couple minutes of stewing in your own soggy misery, you notice a sound coming from behind you. Under the roar of the storm, there’s a faint … meow? That’s weird.

Wait, didn’t Holtzmann say something about having a cat, way back during the first test run? You’ve never seen it, but maybe that’s it now. Not a good day to be a cat, Holtzmann’s or not.

You get yourself to your feet and pry open the door just a little. An extremely wet black cat with oversized ears starts to dash inside, but it freezes halfway through the door and looks up at you. You can see an engraved collar. In a familiar hand, it says “MR. LAPLACE MAXWELL, ESQ.” Definitely Holtzmann’s cat.

“I know, kid,” you say to the cat. “I’m one sorry-looking stranger. But you should come in.”

The cat seems to buy it and slips inside. He makes a run for a space heater that’s tucked under a tall cabinet near the kitchen table, stops, and looks at you accusingly. “I get the message,” you tell the cat. Even though you know he can’t understand you, having someone to talk to makes you feel slightly better.

And at least practical matters will occupy you for a while now. You get undressed (again), dry off, and then drape your clothes on a chair in front of the space heater. You’ve turned it up all the way, for the cat and your clothes, and in case the power goes out before Holtzmann gets back. It’s pretty chilly out there, and sooner or later, it’s going to be chilly in here, too. You put a couple of towels down for the cat to curl up in, once he’s done irritably licking himself.

Then you realize that you have nothing to wear other than your backup underwear and the quilt. You don’t exactly feel comfortable about digging through Holtzmann’s clothes. Even if things were fine, it’s a weird thing to do without permission. But even with the maxed-out heater, you’re still going to be naked when Holtzmann comes back, unless you can find another way to dry things. That is not a great thought.

Holtzmann’s HERF gun…wouldn’t work very well. It’d just get the wet clothes really hot, and still wet. There are other gadgets that look they might be useful, but you know better than to touch them. In the end you go with an analog approach: more towels and an oversized vise to press almost all of the water out of your clothes. After not too long in front of the heater, they’re tolerably dry. At least enough to put on.

7 pm is approaching. You’re not hungry, but Mr. Laplace Maxwell, Esq. is. You find some cat food and put it in a Snoopy bowl for Laplace, and tell yourself that you have to eat a protein bar from your bag. That done, you comb your hair and pace around. The storm outside only sounds worse.

Where is Holtzmann? And how awful is this night going to be—not meteorologically, but interpersonally? Maybe she’ll let you sleep in the motorcycle shed so that she doesn’t have to be in the same room with you.

Holtzmann probably underestimated how many detours she’d have to take on the way back, you think. There must be a lot of closed streets by now. Or, possibly, whatever kind of debriefing they’re doing back at HQ is taking longer than usual.

Or heck, maybe she just decided to sleep there. You wouldn’t blame her.

* * *

7 pm comes and goes. You’re pretty much just pacing around trying to not touch any of Holtzmann’s stuff. By the time it’s 8, your worries about what will happen when you finish coming clean have been replaced by concern about where Holtzmann is. The storm—OK, fine, hurricane—is only getting worse, and the lights are flickering. The Ghostbusters have a public number… maybe if you call it, you can find out something. Anything.

And—no service. Some cell towers must have been knocked down, you realize. So you have no idea if they’re celebrating with pizza and beer, or if they’re still out there busting. That would make it what, four hours now? How long does a bust take, anyway? You realize that you have no idea.

It’s fine, probably.

The weather is still awful—you keep flinching as you hear things being blown into the outside walls and roof of the warehouse. You have no idea what to do, so you take inventory of the crap that’s built up in your pockets and bag over the last few weeks of your attention being…here. If the power goes out, it’d be good to know if you have anything useful on hand. It’s a mundane and probably pointless task, but good for occupying your mind.

You’re about halfway through when the power goes out.

Just as Holtzmann’s note said, the warehouse falls dark. You hear a rumbling from outside—the generator. If it’s big enough to power all of Holtzmann’s crazy machines, with or without the lights, it must be huge, but it’s not as loud as you’d expect. Probably some kind of sound-attenuated enclosure. 

There are a _few_ lights, though. Mostly from the various machines, but there’s also a handful of emergency lights plugged in here and there. And no alarms are going off. That’s…something. But it's still eerie and dark, with only small pools of light. The heat from the space heater is fading quickly.

For whatever reason, it’s sitting alone in the chilling darkness that brings on the tears again. You can’t stop this time, and you cry until you’re just gasping and sobbing with no tears left. Laplace meows at you from somewhere near the futon. The cat must be cold…he’s not having a good night, either, poor guy. You pull the quilt down to the edge of the futon, sit on it, and pat it, still sniffling. Laplace curls up against your back. You’re out of breath and thoroughly exhausted.

* * *

Holtzmann is there. Her hair is down, a crazy jumble of waves and curls. It makes her face look different. Her strong arms are wrapped around you, and all she’s wearing is her mechanic’s jacket, with nothing under it. You can feel her breasts against you, and the curve of her waist.

A song is playing, one you know from the club you used to go to as an undergrad; the one where you met your first real girlfriend.

 _You feel good, you feel right  
_ _You're so good_

It has a snakelike rhythm and Holtzmann is dancing to it, right up against you. You’re entirely lost in just watching her.

She doesn’t say anything, but you can feel her rolling your left nipple back and forth between her index finger and thumb. Then her other hand is touching your face, moving her thumb along your lower lip. Your lips part and she slips two fingers into your mouth. She tastes like scorched metal and burnt sugar. You close your lips around her fingers and chase her fingertips with your tongue. She pushes her fingers in and out of your mouth to the beat of the song. They’re slick with your saliva, but there’s enough friction that her thrusting fingers leave your entire mouth tingling.

She moves her hand down your naked sternum and presses her hand against your breastbone. You shudder; it’s surprisingly intimate. She’s never touched you there before, even by accident. You can hear your heartbeat and her pulse weaving together.

Holtzmann’s hand slides down further. She pulls a length of printed silk between your legs; it parts your labia and you become very aware of how aroused you are. Then her fingers are there and she slowly, slowly pushes the hands-free vibrator all the way into you. You groan.

The vibrator sprouts a web of rope that draws your thighs together tightly, laces itself around your breasts and wrists and arms, and finally renders you immobile, with the surging vibrator still between your legs.

“Why—“ you start to ask, but you can’t speak, or see. There’s a mask over your face, over your entire head. A zipper covers your mouth, but when you feel it with your tongue, it’s been soldered shut.

Holtzmann’s hand is on the back of your neck. She gives you a shove and you fall to your knees. The zipper comes apart, and Holtzmann pulls your head toward her. Something made of glass slides over your lips and into your mouth. It’s long and cold, though it’s warming to your tongue. You can’t tell what’s moving—your head or Holtzmann’s body—but it plunges in and out of your mouth, unstoppable.

When you think you can’t take it any more, Holtzmann hauls you to your feet, slides her fingers into your hair, and crushes your mouth with hers. Your lips feel bruised, but all you want is for her to do it again.

Holtzmann takes a firm grip on your hair and pushes you down so that you’re on your knees again, with your chest pressed onto a workbench.

Nothing happens for an eternity, and then there’s a searing across your ass. Holtzmann’s hand is small but powerful, and you vibrate everywhere each time she strikes you. She delivers a spanking that seems to last hours. The stinging blurs completely into the vibrator that’s working over your clitoris and thumping hard into your vagina.

She turns you over and lashes your breasts with something, stripped cable, maybe. It doesn’t hurt at all. Nothing hurts right now. Everything just blossoms when you’re touched. All you want is more of everything.

You feel the cold touch of steel. Holtzmann has eased a pair of tin slips under the edge of the mask and is cutting it away. You shiver at the feel of the backside of the blade.

 _Tears start  
_ _Tears start over you_

She disappears from sight and you look up. Holtzmann is suspended by cables that twist together and attach at her shoulder blades. She dives down to you and kisses you, upside down. Your mouth is cold and her tongue is fire. She wraps her hands around your arms, just below your wrists, and tugs you up.

You land on your back in the loft. Holtzmann crawls over you. The vibrator is still attached to you, still thrusting and twisting and buzzing. Holtzmann’s blue eyes look deep into you. She presses her thumb into the vibrator, right over your clit. You thrash wildly. It’s too intense, like lightning applied directly to your clitoris, but you don’t want it to stop.

You’re right on the edge of an orgasm when Holtzmann slides her other hand up, over your breastbone, past the divot between your collarbones, and up to your neck. When her fingers touch your throat, you jerk violently and come in a gasping climax that seems to pierce you through.

Holtzmann’s hand is still on your throat, but her face has changed. You’re suddenly afraid.

* * *

Holtzmann is across the room from you, standing on the kitchen table, which is in the loft now. You can’t see her eyes: she’s wearing the blacked-out goggles that you’ve worn several times Other than that, she’s wearing only a pair of overalls, covered in splashes of deadly glowing radioluminescent paint. And she’s dancing again. You can catch maddening glimpses of the sides of her breasts as she turns.

It’s unbearable. You feel compelled to say something.

“I didn’t think you’d be into Adele,” you say, though it’s not Adele at all; it’s a much older song.

“You don’t know me,” she replies.

 _She's got a gun at my head / Gun at my head_  
_Won't let me forget / What I've done_  
_Her bullets silver and cold / I do what I'm told_  
_I'm as good as gold / As good as gold  
_ _As good as dead_

 _She's made of paper and string / Paper and string_  
_She knows everything / But I don't care_  
_My conscience clear and cold / I do what I'm told_  
_I'm as good as gold / As good as gold  
_ _As good as dead_

Then she’s gone, and you’re even more afraid.

You’re alone in the loft, with the chair and the autonomous ropes and the posture collar and everything else. It’s all covered in radiation hazard signs, and as you frantically try to put it out, everything goes up in flames from the inside out. The floor is covered in black ashes, a layer of black ashes floating on of black water swirling around your bare feet. Then the skylight shatters and you’re drowning in a roaring flood of water and paper. The papers you signed, the feedback forms you filled out, every diploma you’ve ever been given, the menu Holtzmann made, and the note that she wrote you before she left. The water rises to your chin and laps at your mouth, and then your head is submerged. You hear a distorted voice through the water, repeating _Finish this_ over and over until it fades from your hearing and you drift away in the darkness.

Your eyelids flutter open, and you realize that you’re damp between your legs. You’re lying mostly on and partly off of Holtzmann’s futon, with the quilt covering you and the cat sleeping next to your head. You must have drifted off and fallen over onto the futon. You should get up and move. It’s very quiet—maybe you’re still dreaming? But no, the wind has died down and the rain is gone. _That’s good_ , you think hazily. _Everything will be OK now_. You fall back into sleep—this time dreamless—before you know it.

 

* * *

 

You jerk awake. You don’t know what time it is, or, for a moment, where you are, but the howling wind and the pounding rain are back.

You heard something else, though. Maybe a motorcycle engine. Maybe.

You scramble up from the futon and bump into the table in the darkness, which wakes you up enough to grab your phone and turn its light on. Laplace is awake and looks alarmed, ears straight up and body tense.

Before you can make it to the door, it shudders open. It’s Holtzmann, though you can’t make out her face. She’s silhouetted by the headlight of her bike, which she’s left right outside the door. Maybe she just can’t wait to get this thing with you over with.

“Are—“ you start, but the sound of Holtzmann’s helmet clattering to the floor interrupts you. She leans her forearm on the doorframe, and her head drops.

You’ve never seen Holtzmann angry, but you guess this is it. And you can’t say you don’t deserve it. You close your mouth and take a deep breath.

Holtzmann falls to her knees and crumples to the floor. A puddle of rainwater pools around her, and then blossoms bright red.

A sick feeling of fear seizes you and you race toward her.

“HOLTZMANN—!”

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh...that happened! Part III...soon? ish?
> 
> I'm looking forward to hearing what you think!
> 
> \- ERRATA -
> 
> Ah Sang, "瘋了" ("Mad World" cover, with altered lyrics): [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m5gym2Qe6Fc) \-- there was no organic place to put it, but here's your DESPAAAIR soundtrack for the first part
> 
> Goldfrapp, "Tiptoe": [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Bt-zvZIi6A), [lyrics](http://genius.com/Goldfrapp-tiptoe-lyrics)
> 
> Silverman, "Gun at My Head": [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2u2dn6PR4Dg), [lyrics](http://genius.com/Silverman-gun-at-my-head-lyrics)
> 
> Honorary mention to Adele, "Set Fire to the Rain": [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ri7-vnrJD3k)\--I only realized AFTER I wrote it that the second part of the dream sequence was pretty much this song.


End file.
